


All That I Am, All That I Ever Was

by NETHERW4RT



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Not Beta Read, Purple Prose, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Touch-Starved GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Worship, bitches be bad at tagging, does this count as purple prose? idk, im bitches, like seriously theyre both whipped for each other, oh yeah woo yeah woo, the usual, they literally just kiss and hold each other thats literally it, very minimal tho?, we die like the hunters in minecraft manhunt, your honor theyre gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/pseuds/NETHERW4RT
Summary: “You’re beautiful,” George murmurs just as Dream’s lips part to say something, but he’s said something else first and now they’re pressed together again andgod, he just wants to lean down and kiss him senseless. It’s so hardnotto.Or, George and Dream are effortlessly in love.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 531





	All That I Am, All That I Ever Was

**Author's Note:**

> title is a line from Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol :)

It feels like forever since he’s been able to run his hands through Dream’s hair and watch the steady rise and fall of his chest—it has, sort of, thanks to the shitty world situation. But now, George is there, in Florida, with the younger tangled in his embrace and refusing to let go. He threads his fingers through the golden locks again, lightly tugging back at the bangs to reveal Dream’s face, as beautiful as it had been almost a year ago when they were together in England, pressed up at the sides on his sofa while a movie buzzed in the background of their togetherness. _God, he missed this so fucking much._

Freckles lie sprawled across Dream’s nose and cheeks, stretching up just barely across his forehead and down to his chin. George firmly believes that each and every little dot was placed carefully on his skin, kisses from unknown beings that had blessed him. His hand drags back again in a fluid motion, stopping to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear when Dream’s eyes flutter open and meet his. It’s everything they could possibly say to each other—the longing, the adoration, every need and want mixed behind dark swirls of brown and a green that George thinks looks too much like the sun.

“You’re beautiful,” George murmurs just as Dream’s lips part to say something, but he’s said something else first and now they’re pressed together again and _god_ , he just wants to lean down and kiss him senseless. It’s so hard _not_ to.

A chuckle escapes from him and George can feel the way it rumbles throughout his entire body; it’s a loving laugh, the kind that causes Dream’s eyes to crinkle at the edges and push his dimples as far inward as they can go. His smile is contagious, intoxicating, and everything that stirs the butterflies around in the Brit’s stomach and leaves him on cloud nine. 

“Am I?”

“You are.” George traces his fingers down Dream’s jawline, breath hitching as Dream leans into it. He’s so fucking perfect—every inch of him is dripping with it, the perfection that George is certain was granted to him from some otherworldly figure. He’s sure everyone else sees, too; how could they not? His heart swells in his chest as his thumb brushes across pretty pink lips, stopping only to feel them curl against the pad of his skin. He wants more than he’s ever wanted before—wants to kiss him until pink melds into red, until their breaths mingle in front of their faces, until his fingers are turning white at the knuckles whilst he holds fast to Dream’s hair. 

Dream grins as he notices how George’s bottom lip hooks under his teeth. He leans up ever so slightly, letting George’s hand slide back to his neck, and pulls the older man from his horridly affectionate thoughts. He’s sick in love—they both are at this point, intertwined and wrapped around each other like that’s where they were meant to be, like they were carefully crafted by the stars to be locked in each other’s arms and to never let go. Dream lets his gaze flicker away from George’s, falling down to his lips; he would be stupid not to understand that.

And maybe he _is_ a little stupid, but only for Dream.

George surges forward, desperate and wholly in love, capturing Dream’s lips against his own. He faintly registers the taste of the vanilla chapstick that Dream had put on earlier, most likely when he was still waiting for a text message from George—the one simple message that made everything real again, that made him eager and impatient, needing to hold his boyfriend in his arms and kiss the air out of his lungs. And here he was, doing just that, and it was all of the yearning, cold, sleepless nights, and salty tears bundled up in the fervor of their connection. George thinks, briefly, before his thoughts are swept away by nothing but Dream and his rippling warmth, that nothing has ever made him feel so at home—so _complete_.

It’s a rhythm that they’ve fallen into, pressed against each other with fire burning through every inch of skin. His head is spinning, foggy and flooded with white noise that only screams Dream’s name over and over, but George can’t find it in himself to care when they’re so close together and so intimate and everything is _perfect_. He only pulls back when his lungs begin to tremble inside him, a good indication that _fuck, he can’t breathe_ but it fights against _I don’t want to stop kissing him_ for a good few seconds before common sense takes over. Dream’s breath is warm over his nose and it takes all of his self-control not to dive right back in and go further and further until George is drowning in Dream—all of him, everything, and _god_ , he would drown in Dream every second of every day if he could.

“I like that,” Dream says after he catches his breath, voice low and gravelly and rich with something that gives away just how kissed-out he is. His head turns languidly to the side and he presses his lips to George’s wrist, leaving the skin tingling and burning in their wake; the Brit swears his heart is going to overflow and burst open. “A lot.”

“I like _you_ ,” George responds, breathless and quiet, “a lot.” He could rip multitudes of words, endlessly, from their places in a dictionary and it would never be enough to describe just how far he has fallen, just how raw and vulnerable his emotions are when it comes to Dream. Words mean nothing compared to loving embraces and touches that linger just a tad too long, but he knows the blond wants to hear it— _needs_ to hear it—so he says it. He says it until his lungs deflate and his throat goes hoarse, in private moments where no one else is around to hear; those words belong to Dream and Dream alone.

He’s promptly pulled flush against Dream’s chest, legs curled around his waist as he sits in his boyfriend’s lap. George wants to kiss him again—it’s a habit he’s learned while spending time with Dream in person, this deep-rooted desire to have his hands all over the person he loves. At first it was new— _scary_ , even—but Dream never pushed or pulled; he made it abundantly clear that these intimate exchanges were mutual and that they lit him aflame as if George’s fingertips were cigarette butts against his skin, aching yet addictive.

George finds himself rubbing his thumb along the stretch of the blond’s neck, feeling his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows nothing. There’s a sense of power to it, the way Dream falls apart under his gaze and there’s pride in knowing that he’s only like this for George. Dream’s lips part the slightest bit, as if to say something, but nothing comes out and he’s left gaping at the Brit, so easily undone by how angelic he looks under the low glow of the sunlight leaking through the windows. 

“You ruin me,” Dream whispers after he grasps the words.

“You _want_ to be ruined,” George replies and Dream doesn’t deny it—he doesn’t deny it because _why would he_? It’s true and they both know it; George is Dream’s downfall and Dream is George’s. They balance on the edge of a cliff, clinging to anything that will keep them grounded and _sane_ , but they fall nonetheless. They fall into each other, under the surface of boiling water below, drifting deeper and deeper until even the thought of resurfacing is absurd and unrealistic. 

“Only by you, George.”

“You say that like you’re worshiping me.”

Dream swallows again, his fingers rubbing carefully around George’s hips. “Maybe I am,” he mutters, leaning forward to kiss a line down the brunet’s jaw. His voice is steady but tentative, a concoction of confidence and uncertainty all the same. “What would you do if I said I wanted to—if I said I already do?”

There’s a pause where George inhales sharply and holds it; Dream thinks he’s crossed a line, pushed his boyfriend just a bit too far, teased him too much for comfort, until, slowly, “I think I’d like that—having you all to myself. Do you want to treat me like some kind of saint, Dream? Is that it?”

“I already do,” Dream says against the curve of George’s skin. He’s infinitely warm and welcoming and his body fits snug against Dream’s own; the latter _knows_ he belongs there. He wants to bottle up every inch of George and keep him perfect forever, a picturesque ornament for his own pleasure.

George giggles and it bubbles up so beautifully from the bottom of his throat that Dream can practically feel the tears threatening to spill. He’s fallen so far, so deep into the ravine of his own heart that he fears he’ll be trapped forever. He has no way out, but in this moment, in this reality, it doesn’t matter—he’s trapped _with_ George. The Brit is there beside him, breathing in sync, while they rot together in the dirtiest of places; their love, Dream muses, could possibly make it clean.

“I love you,” comes a silent confession.

Dream’s heart stutters. “I love you too,” he breathes, and he pulls George impossibly closer until it borders on uncomfortable. He pulls one hand away from George’s hips and slides his fingers up his forearm, capturing the Brit’s hand in his own and lacing their fingers together easily, so easily that it burns his skin as they connect. “I love you so much.”

George smiles and presses against him, soft and loving and it’s everything Dream could’ve ever wished or hoped for. Their lips brush again, a light tease that has Dream chasing after the heat; the former laughs and it’s enough to rip a low whine from his boyfriend’s mouth. With that, he gives in, melting against Dream like honey and molasses, and thinks that he wouldn’t give this up for any of the stars in the sky or the galaxies expanding beyond his comprehension. 


End file.
